Cosmic Loophole
by Unknown Fool
Summary: He had expected brimstone and fire, agony and pain to fill eons. He got something . . . different.


Just a small idea that wouldn't leave my head :)

Slight GilxBierrez. Oneshot. Takes place sometime between books 10 and 20.

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He had expected brimstone and fire, agony and pain to fill eons. He got something . . . different.

He didn't know how to describe the sky. Even alive, he had never been a poet, and death couldn't change that. He could think of no color that existed, so he settled on a deep, rage-filled purple. He watched it prowl to and fro like a cage beast, a guardian of the sky, never letting a drop of rain nor sun breaking through. The wind couldn't control them, blowing and pulling as hard as they could, they had no influence. The cloud's hunt consumed it.

He recalls the earth, the sickly yellow field of wheat that covered everything, always dancing in the persistent gale. He remembers sitting in them, the stalks cocooning him, protecting him like no one ever had. He remembers how intangible time was, how night and day would blend together in seamless fusion, how the only landmark was the field itself. He recalls warmly, almost fondly those first few days, the insatiable panic gnawing at his limbs, and the grief clogging his throat. He must have ended up in his own special Hell, so heinous were his crimes, and the horrors that awaited him had yet to reveal themselves. After hours of nothing (were they hours? Time was so bizarre here), hours of waiting for his comeuppance, he decided he must have fallen through. It wasn't a purgatory—there'd be other people trying to pay off their sins—and there was no possible way he could be in Heaven. In death he must have fallen through some loophole, and landed himself in a purple and yellow wasteland.

Some days he wandered and some days he rested, there really wasn't much else to do. He became so familiar with his own image, the exact slope of the claws on his hands, the number of scars on each limb. It was the small, menial things that kept his mind.

He didn't remember how long, or far, he traveled. His steps were swallowed up by the sea of yellow, the changing winds blowing away whatever traces of himself he might have left. He recalls after god-knows how many days of trudging, the landscape began to change. Not drastically, the swaying field continued to mock him, but he slowly began to climb uphill. He remembers how the possibilities swam in his mind. Was this an exit? Was it an end? Was it a beginning? Did just another field lie ahead? He remembers as the thoughts swirled, the sky above seemed to growl.

It might have been his imagination, but everything grew darker as be climbed. The sky swirled more violently than before, the near-black clouds swelling in the sky. He swore if he extended his hands, he could have touched them, held a piece of sky in his hands. The wind whipped about him, pulling at his hair and clawing at his skin. He surprised himself—he could still feel cold, still feel the wind cutting him to the bone. He remembers that last step, that first fall, the sudden leveled land catching him by surprise. The taste of something besides his own mouth. He remembers lying there, taking in the feel of the dirt and wind, before rising begrudgingly to his feet. He also remembers the look on the vision's face.

Their faces were a stunning mixture of shock and wonder, of reverence and fear. After weeks (months, years?) of absolute isolation, there was someone else. He walked slowly to the hallucination, wariness in every foot fall. He extended a hand tentatively, oh so tentatively, and grazed the other's skin. He remembers falling to his knees, a sob caught in his throat, his eyes and his hands taking in every piece of the stranger. The awe of someone else, the texture of his red hair and the feel of his milky skin. He shouldn't have been that fascinated, but he couldn't help it. There was someone else. He wasn't alone.

He remembers spending what felt like hours locked in an embrace with him. The feel of his arms locked about another, the feeling of spreading warmth. He remembers the stranger's hesitation at first, and then sensation of someone's arms around him, of fingers in his hair, pulling out the tangles the wind had placed there. He recalls the wind doing the speaking, crying and weeping for them. They didn't want to speak; it would shatter the euphoria. After nothing had been said but all had been done, he finally locked eyes with the other, harsh gold meeting a softer green.

For a soft moment, a slight smile lighted the other's face. He remembers thinking it was a suitable replacement for the sun, in this strange cosmic loophole.

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Well, I hoped you enjoyed that. (Yeesh, that got fluffy at the end . . .)

Please review!


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